


dead zones and stale donuts

by brawlite



Series: liminal spaces [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Blood, Crushes, Food, Kissing, M/M, Pining, References to Depression, Secret Identities, Self-Improvement, Unreliable Narrator, and he's godawful at communicating, but wade is patient, liminal spaces, mental health, nor is he good at reconciling what he should do with what he wants to do, peter is...not very good at dealing with his own emotions, peter stop projecting your problems onto wade, talking about consent without actually talking about consent, wade has more of his shit figured out than peter ever would have imagined, wade settles for things too often in his life instead of fighting for better for himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 03:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12423777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Peter keeps a gunshot-wound ridden Wade company in a practically-abandoned subway station in the middle of the night. It's way more pleasant than Peter would have imagined, even if Wade keeps eating all of his stale donuts.This is just Peter's life now, apparently.





	dead zones and stale donuts

Peter isn’t expecting to see a familiar face in the middle of the night while he’s chowing down on donuts on a practically-abandoned subway platform, but at this point, he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s like, his thing now, or something. _Their thing_ , he thinks, as he looks over at the slumped form of Deadpool on a bench about forty feet away. Peter didn’t see him when he came down here, but then again, he hadn’t really been looking for Wade, either. He’d been far more interested in his box of donuts after a long night of patrolling.

Patrolling, during which he’d seen neither hide nor hair of Deadpool the entire time.

It’s not like Peter _missed him_.

...but ugh, he totally missed him.

Peter’s feet have him up and moving toward the red-suited lump on the other bench before he can think twice about it.

“Consider this me texting you,” Peter says as an opener, when he finds himself standing in front of Deadpool. “But we’re in a dead-zone, so.” Peter shrugs. A text wouldn’t have gone through. “Sometimes you just have to do things the old-fashioned way.” He tries to quash the fluttering in his chest by taking a bite of a crumbly donut, but it doesn’t do much. Whatever stubborn thing that thuds around inside his chest when Wade is around is not appeased by cheap pastries.

Deadpool looks up from where he’s slouched. He’s wearing a hoodie over his suit and his mask, but isn’t wearing jeans -- just the spandex bottom of his suit. The legs are covered in dirt -- and maybe blood. “Hey, kiddo,” Wade says. He sounds _tired,_ Peter thinks. There’s no remark about texting back, or something like fancy meeting Peter in this dead zone where anything could happen, or anything else. He can’t help but miss the weirdly chipper way Wade normally greets him. But, at the same time, Peter knows that in their world, energy is not a constant. Even for Deadpool.

“You alright?” Peter can’t help but ask, concern seeping into his gut.

“I’m always alright, baby boy,” Deadpool says, with what feels like an obscenely fake grin. His face stretches under his mask in what has to be a forced smile, with the size of it.

Peter gives Wade a once-over in the dim fluorescent lights of the subway station. Wade smells like sweat and blood (which isn’t out of the ordinary), and he looks about as exhausted as he sounds (which kind of is). Like maybe he’s only being held together by sheer willpower alone -- or a body’s mutation refusing to give up the ghost. There’s a dark red shadow in the middle of Wade’s gut, right where his sweatshirt folds and it takes Peter way too long to realize that it’s a gradually worsening bloodstain and not just a trick of the light.

“Were you _shot_?” Peter asks.

Deadpool laughs and it sounds like a gurgle. “When am I _not_ shot?”

“A lot of the time, presumably?”

Wade shrugs, then winces. “ _Yee-ouch_. Not a good call. Right: limit the moving and the shaking.” He takes a breath, presumably trying to steady himself or to will the pain away. “So, what brings you to my fancy villain lair, Petey?”

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Your fancy villain lair is at Chambers Street Station?”

Deadpool looks around, like he’s just realizing his surroundings. “Looks like it.” Maybe he dragged himself here after getting shot. Maybe he got shot _here_. It’s hard to say, but Peter hopes it’s the former, rather than the latter. He really doesn’t want to be interrupted by some maniac with a gun. The only maniac with a gun he’s interested in is right here in front of him, currently bleeding from the abdomen and eyeing Peter’s box of donuts hungrily.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Peter says, handing Wade a cheap and crumbling donut. They were on sale because they were old, so they’re even more crumbly than normal but only little bit stale. Peter sits down next to him. “It’s dingy. Very super-villain-circa-1990-chic.”

Wade takes the donut with only a hint of a wince. He’s uncharacteristically quiet, not chatty or quippy or sarcastic like Peter’s used to. The silence between them is easy, if not necessarily comfortable. The lack of comfort is probably due to the pain on Wade’s part. Even if Peter can’t feel it, he knows it’s there, eating away at the space between them both.

The train comes. A couple people appear from apparently nowhere and get on. Another few get off. After another beat, the platform is empty again, leaving them in near-silence. Peter knows better than to assume that they’re actually alone -- it’s New York, how could they be? But to some small extent, they are. At this time of night, everyone else is like a near-ghost. So easy to ignore, to look past, to filter out. Even on the busiest of streets, sometimes Peter can feel so despairingly alone.

Wade takes a wheezing breath. When Peter looks over at him, Wade’s looking back at him. “Thanks for _open air-quote_ texting me _close air-quote_ in this dead zone. I was beginning to think the plot might have just forgotten me here.”

“Yeah, anytime,” Peter says, knowing that it’s not true. Even though he said to consider this texting, Peter _still_ hasn’t actually texted Wade. He’s just found him in strange places. This is the first time he’s approached Wade himself, though, so that’s something of a step in -- well, if not the _right_ direction, then certainly _a_ direction, at least. Life seems to be moving Peter forward, giving him very little say in the matter indeed.

The problem is: Peter can’t actually text Wade without readily alerting him to the fact that he’s Spider-Man, and Peter _still_ isn’t sure where Wade stands with that knowledge. Sure, Peter could just _tell him_. But at the same time, at the beginning of all of this, he agreed to himself to keep his identity secret for the safety of everyone he knows. He promised himself there would be no exceptions. He’s done a pretty decent job of it thus far, even though a few people have had to slip through the cracks.

At this point, though, it really just sounds like he’s coming up with excuses for himself, opposed to rock-solid reasons, like he should be able to supply, but can’t seem to.

He’s too emotionally invested. That’s why.

The _real_ problem is: Peter doesn’t want to stop.

He could, maybe. If he distanced himself from Wade enough, he might be able to step on these feelings until they petered out. If he picked the right fights with Wade, maybe Wade would act differently, hate him, and leave him alone. If he even _tried_ dating someone, anyone else, maybe he’d develop feelings elsewhere and his brain would forget this dumb little crush.

But Peter knows he can’t do any of those things. He’s just not that guy. He’s old enough now to know himself, to understand that fundamental part of his character. He’s the guy who gets crushes on unattainable people.

Well. Maybe Wade is a little _attainable_ , sure -- but not quite, at the same time. Wade is one of the most emotionally guarded people that Peter has ever met. Peter has no doubt that, even now, with Wade shot and injured, if he offered to go back to Wade’s, the answer would be an enthusiastic yes. They’d have a fun night, all options on the table. But what Peter doubts is if Wade would be there when he woke up, or if Wade would pick up if Peter called just to chat, or if Wade would do something like dumb like make cookies with his aunt. He certainly wouldn’t share a lick of emotional information about himself, that much, Peter’s sure of.

It’s not that Wade’s a fair-weather friend (or whatever he is) -- it’s just that he’s guarded. Distant. He’s got a whole slew of his own issues that he’s been steadily working on in the time that Peter’s known him. And that’s good. It’s _great_. Peter can even tell that it’s working out for him. It’s just that he’s not done. He’s clearly not ready to be in a relationship, that much Peter knows.

Maybe it’s a defense mechanism, Peter thinks. His constant and debilitating need to have crushes on unattainable people. No -- it’s _definitely_ a defense mechanism. Normally it’s fine. Peter gets attached to the idea of them, the other person ignores him, and eventually he gets over it.

It’s just a pity that Wade is so great, is all.

He _doesn’t_ ignore Peter (or Spider-Man), and is always unerringly sweet. Well, except when he’s being risque -- and Peter doesn’t really mind that so much, either.

“You’re thinking really loud there, Petey,” Wade says from beside him.

“Was I?” God, he hopes not.

Instead of a response, Peter hears the low slide of fabric against concrete before he feels a head resting against his shoulder. Wade’s head. Deadpool’s body is warm and firm, pressed snugly against his side. It’s cozy. Familiar.

“Hey,” Peter says. “You alright?”

Wade just lets out a long sigh, like all the air is escaping from his lungs. It doesn’t sound upset or pained, though, like Peter might have thought. Just -- relaxed. Maybe it’s not so farfetched, though -- like maybe Deadpool can finally let his guard down, now that Peter’s here.

“Are you healing?” Peter asks, worriedly, trying to take a glance at Wade’s midsection without dislodging the guy’s head from his shoulder. “That’s an awful lot of blood for someone who should be healing.” Peter can’t help but feel a little panicked.

Wade doesn’t answer that. Instead, after a beat, he asks: “Seriously though, baby boy. What brings you down here in the middle of the night, eating stale donuts like a depressed and broke college student?”

“I _am_ a depressed and broke college student.” Peter would argue that he’s not depressed, but he thinks he’d be hard pressed to find a millennial that didn’t fight that battle every once in awhile, at least to some extent. After all, he _is_ eating donuts alone in a dingy subway station that is in sore need of repairs when he _could_ be at home in his cozy (postage stamp-sized) apartment playing video games.

Wade hums. “You’re _my_ depressed and broke college student.” Annnd Deadpool, as usual, doesn’t know how right he is.

“But really, Wade. Shouldn’t you be healing?”

Wade looks down. He pats his stomach and groans when he pulls his hand back to look at it, covered in coagulating blood. “Probably,” is all he says.

Peter makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between concerned and disgusted, and passes Wade another donut. Wade takes it with his bloody hand, which is -- gross.

“Why aren’t you healing?”

“Why are _you_ Saddy McSadface?”

“I’m...not?” Peter says, feeling a little bit like the word is a lie but not quite understanding why, himself. He doesn’t _think_ he’s sad. He doesn’t _feel_ sad. He just feels stuck somewhere between contemplative and worn out. He is _exhausted_ , down to the bone -- but that’s because he was out all night on patrol, not because of anything else.

Wade looks up for a moment, vision trained on Peter’s face. “Tell that to your sad puppy-dog eyes, baby boy. Those sultry browns don’t lie.” Wade lets his head fall back down on Peter’s shoulder and starts munching away on his donut. “You know, you can tell me what’s wrong, if you want. I’m super duper great at keeping secrets.”

“ _Are you_?” Peter feels like his tone is a little incredulous. But he feels entitled to it: this is Wade Wilson. _Deadpool_. The merc with a mouth. Peter doesn’t think keeping secrets is really part of Wade’s repertoire.

Wade nods and crumbs fall onto his blood-soaked sweatshirt. They also fall onto Peter’s lap.

“One time, I saw Spider-Man with his mask off,” Wade says, sagely.

Peter’s heartbeat kicks up to a million and his stomach clenches into just as many knots. “You did?” He asks, voice tight. If Wade’s seen Spider-Man with his mask off, then...wouldn’t he know? God, he must. And he must think Peter is either stupid or terrible or cruel, or something even worse.

“I didn’t even look,” Wade says. “I promise. Cross my heart, hope to die -- for goodsies, I mean. Not my normal kind of dead-for-a-minute situation.” Wade thumbs a cross over his chest. “Spidey’s mask was blown to smithereens in an explosion and he was knocked out. I just happened to be walking by, at the time.”

“Oh?” Peter says, extremely dubious.

“I _kindaaaa_ needed to borrow his costume. So, I took off my mask and gave it to him to protect his face while I wore his. Took a while, trying to put on someone else’s mask on without looking, but -- _worth it_. ” Wade sing-songs that last bit. “Gotta uphold the super bro-code. Then, I carried him all the way to Avengers Tower myself, bridal-style. Stark knows him, so -- package delivered and problem solved. I even mailed the suit back to Stark, since I didn’t have Spidey’s address.”

Peter only foggily remembers that night. He hadn’t known how he’d gotten back to Avengers Tower -- he’d just assumed that Tony found him after the explosion. He never assumed Wade did. Or that Wade managed to respect his privacy something fierce like that, even when he was stealing Spider-Man’s suit for whatever nefarious purposes.

It’s honestly so surprisingly touching that Peter doesn’t know what to say. Words escape him.

Deadpool makes grabby-hands at another donut, so Peter indulges him: a _thank you_ without words.

They sit in silence again for a while. It’s always strangely comfortable to do that with Wade, to just let the minutes pass in his company. Years ago, Peter would have thought it strange, that he could spend so much word-less time with Deadpool, someone so chatty and also dangerous -- but it’s so easy.

Somehow, somewhere along the line, Wade has become one of Peter’s favorite people to be around.

“How much did these even cost?” Wade asks around the donut, mouth full of crumbs. “Negative five dollars? Did the store pay you to take these stale monstrosities off their hands?”

Peter laughs and Wade’s head bobs on his shoulder.

“They’re not that bad.” They’re sugar and calories and they were only a couple of dollars.

“Petey, baby, the city is full of amazing artisanal donut shops and you’re here eating dollar store rejects.”

Peter laughs again. “If you want me to eat artisanal donuts, you’re going to have to buy them for me, Wade. I don’t have that kind of money.”

Wade groans and puts a hand on Peter’s chest. Unfortunately, it’s bloody, so now Peter’s shirt is bloody, too. “Music to my ears, baby boy. I will shower you in sugary confections, now that I know it’s something you want. Only consensual sugarsports for you and me.”

Peter blushes a bit at the comment, but doesn’t doubt the sentiment behind it. Wade would find him somehow, even without Peter’s number. He is incredibly tenacious and persistent -- but that’s probably because Peter’s never done a good job of hiding his interest, even though he puts on a good show of the repetitious _I can’t_. Even Peter knows it's bullshit at this point, just a really shoddy stalling tactic.

Peter sighs, realizing that he really can’t do this forever.

“Wade,” he starts, unsure exactly where his words are taking him.

“Shh,” Wade says. “I know what you’re going to say, baby boy. It’s fine.” Deadpool pats his stomach and sits himself up a bit with a groan. His head is no longer on Peter’s shoulder, his body no longer a warm line of heat and muscle against Peter’s side. Peter tries not to feel cold without him there. “Hey, I think I’m finally healing,” Wade says.

“Oh?” Peter manages, trying to figure out if he was actually going to turn Wade down _again_ , like Wade assumed, or if he was going to say something else entirely.

He also tries not to feel disappointed that Wade is no longer leaning on him. God, Peter should be happy that he’s feeling well enough to sit up.

“Maybe it was you, Petey. Your youthful ebullience upped my healing factor,” Wade says, waggling his eyebrows under his mask.

“Or maybe you were just lonely,” Peter replies, before he can really think better of it. But, then again, Wade called him depressed earlier, so maybe they’re just calling each other on their bullshit today.

Wade laughs, because Wade laughs at everything, apparently. “Well _obviously_ ,” he says, like it’s totally fine to just be lonely. Like he’s come to terms with that aspect of his life. Honestly, Peter is beginning to think Wade, with his devil-may-care attitude and his constant irreverence, has more of a solid grip on life and reality than Peter does.

Yeah -- he totally does.

“I’m no scientist,” Wade says, “but that seems legit. My body put all its effort into staying alert and keeping me safe, instead of healing all the way. Then, you got here and it could do its thing, uninterrupted. Maybe you saved my life, Petey.”

“I really doubt it.” If Peter hadn’t been there, Wade probably would have healed the same. He just would have done it without stale donuts or a shoulder to lean on. Maybe he was just taking his time because of what he was shot with -- or something.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Wade says. Then, he looks Peter up and down, even though they’re both sitting. “Well, I mean, you can sell yourself a _little_ short, kiddo.”

“Hey -- you’re not that much taller than me. Just a couple of inches.”

Peter gets the distinct impression that Wade is raising his eyebrows under the mask. “A couple inches can make all the difference, _don’tchaknow_. But then again, that kind of gift can be wasted on people: with great power comes great responsibility. It’s all in how you use it.” Wade elbows Peter. Like he needs to -- Peter’s already flushing, cheeks heating up without his permission.

Peter _really_ doesn’t need to start letting his thoughts wander in that direction, so he tries to change the subject. “So, now that you’re starting to heal, are you going home after this?” No -- wait. He meant to find a change of topic, not something that sounded very much like a hopeful come-on. He feels his cheeks get warmer, same with the tips of his ears. God dammit.

“ _You’re hot, then you’re cold_ ,” Wade sings and pokes Peter in the chest, and Peter feels like he’s sucked back to the Mexican-Asian Fusion diner, Wade singing at him over peppers and rolls. It’s a fond memory, if not a confusing one.

“I didn’t mean I wanted to come with you. You know that.”

“Do I?” Wade asks. “Do _you_?”

Peter doesn’t know what he knows, at this point. All he knows is that he feels better than he did earlier -- happier, maybe -- even though he didn’t think he’d been feeling particularly bad at all. Wade has a weird ability to always make him feel wanted. It’s taken Peter a while to realize that it’s not necessarily the fact that Wade _wants_ him, physically, like he’d always thought. Wade genuinely seems to enjoy hanging out with Peter, even though Peter hasn’t exactly made his intentions super clear.

“...What if I did?” Peter finds himself asking. “What if I did want to come back with you?”

“Are you just asking to ask, or do you actually want to?”

It’s a reasonable question. Peter isn’t sure of the answer. He wishes he knew himself better, like Wade. “Someone has to make sure you get home safe at this hour.”

“Yeah, well, who’s going to make sure _you_ get home safe?” Deadpool asks. “After all, you’re much prettier than me. And you aren’t carrying an arsenal.” Wade gives him a once over, noting his sheer lack of weapons. “Unless you are, in which case, I admire your dedication.”

Peter chuckles. “Nah, no weapons on me.” Unless you count Peter himself.

“So? How are you going to get home safe tonight, baby boy?”

“I could just stay until the morning, couldn’t I?”

Wade is quiet for a moment. Peter can almost imagine the loading bar over his head as he processes this information.

“You actually want to spend the night at my place?” Wade finally asks.

Peter nods. Evidently, that’s where his mouth and his brain have piloted him, and -- despite the thudding of his heart in his chest -- he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed that this is where he’s ended up.

“Nope. No way,” Wade says.

Peter feels like his heart trips over itself, trying to catch up. “What?” he asks, eyebrows drawn together.

“I said, _no way_.”

“Oh,” Peter says. He tries not to feel disappointed, because he really has no reason to be -- but it’s hard. He’s not even sure what he wanted, exactly, but more time with Wade was certainly on the table. He wasn’t at all ready to call it a night, yet. “Yeah, I mean, if that’s what you want…okay.”

Yikes. Is this what Wade feels like every time Peter turns him down?

Wade throws an arm over Peter’s shoulder. “How about we go to yours?” Wade says, words immediately dragging Peter out of whatever spiral he’d found himself in.

Now, he kind of wants to punch Wade in the face. “Oh my _god_ , Wade. What?”

“My place is a pigsty. Like hell am I taking you back there. How about yours?” Wade hums. “I bet it’s not pristine, because, see: depressed and broke college kid. But I guarantee it’ll be better than mine. _Mi casa no es tu casa. Lo siento,_ baby boy.”

Oh. _Oh_. Peter can’t help but feel a bit relieved, as well as a bit hopeful. Both of those emotions overshadow the rational sense of foreboding that comes with bringing Wade to Peter Parker’s place. He can’t possibly bring Deadpool to Spider-Man’s secret identity's apartment.

It’s a Bad Idea™ and Peter knows better.

“Okay, yeah, let’s go,” Peter says, because this is his life, apparently.

\--

“Swanky digs,” Deadpool says, toeing at a biochemistry textbook with his foot. It’s in a corner of other textbooks, all stacked in a haphazard pile. It’s much cheaper than multiple bookshelves, Peter argues every time he walks past and trips on them.

“Yeah, it’s really not much, sorry,” Peter says, trying not to have a panic attack in the middle of his living room/kitchen/bedroom. His whole apartment is pretty small, and it’s lovingly referred to by building management as a “cozy studio with character,” which really means he just gets one room with a fancy name to make up for the minimal space. At least he lucked out with three windows due to a weird configuration of the building having too many angles. His apartment has a good number of nooks and corners, where Peter has stacked books and drawers and other general nonsense.

Hey, at least he tidied a little before heading out on patrol tonight (which means he kicked things into closets and under his bed). But -- lucky foresight, right there.

“Nah, Petey, it’s super cute,” Wade says, meandering around the small place and poking at all of Peter’s things. He wanders over to a window and leans out (Peter removed all the screens long ago). “Very bright. I live in a basement unit with a blind roommate. Kind of dank and dreary. Really great for a depression cave; not so great for stimulating a healthy mindset with natural light and cleanliness or anything.”

“I don’t think light really helps that much with depression,” Peter says.

“Ah but that’s where you’re wrong, young padawan. Light therapy can super help with Seasonal Affective Disorder, but it can also help other types of depression. Not like it’ll _cure_ it, but,” Wade waves a hand. “I definitely recommend not living in a basement with zero light. Zero-out-of-ten, would not live in again. But I’ll take what I can get.”

Peter hums. He supposes that makes sense. He watches as Wade flops down on his couch, honestly a little surprised that Deadpool didn’t choose the bed, which is approximately three feet away from the couch.

“I can text you a bunch of different studies and articles, if you’re interested,” Wade offers. “When you decide to give me your number.”

It’s interesting how Wade only pushes certain issues. He’s all for pointing out Peter’s hot-and-cold behavior, as well as his apparent interest, but he’s been pretty hands-off about the whole number thing. Like he knows it’s not an issue to push until Peter’s ready for it.

The more time Peter spends with the mercenary, the more he sees the depth of Wade’s personality. All his little ins-and-outs, his real character. He’s way more emotionally literate than Peter assumed -- honestly, probably more so than Peter is on a good day, full-stop.

“Maybe,” Peter says, feeling a little out of his depth with Wade, the evening, and everything else in his life.

Peter is also starting to think that Wade isn’t nearly as closed off as he originally thought -- just weirdly careful about how he shares parts of himself. He’s all for openly and unapologetically talking about depression or loneliness, which is something Peter used to brush off as flagrant joking, opposed to absolute sincerity. Now, he thinks that this is maybe just how Wade deals, how he approaches everything. Upfront and without pause. Looking at him now, he’s definitely being more vulnerable and open than Peter ever considered.

It makes Peter feel a bit bad for not being on the same page at all. Fot not even _noticing_ Deadpool had opened himself as a book and displayed his pages in the first place.

“I don’t really have anything to offer you. I’ve got some Indian in the fridge, but it’s not really enough for the both of us,” Peter says, trying to derail his own thoughts of guilt.

“Do you like Thai? I could really do Thai.”

“Um,” Peter starts, before Wade follows it up with a quick, “I’m buying, _obviously_.”

“I love Thai,” Peter says.

While Wade pulls out his phone and punches out an order for way too much food on Grubhub, Peter considers the situation at hand.

“But you have to let me pay you back somehow. You can’t just keep buying me food.”

“Uh huh,” Wade nods, like he’s not even listening. “Do you like satay? Tom Kah? Hm. Pad See-ew, or drunken noodles? Nah, nevermind, gonna get both. Also, curry, obviously: Panang or green?”

“Um. I’ll eat whatever?” If Wade is paying, he’s the one who gets to make the decisions.

“Okay, we’ll get both and you can pick a favorite for next time.”

This time, Peter knows better than to argue about a _next time_. It’s totally going to happen and there’s no point fighting it. “Okay,” he says carefully.

“Done!” Wade punches the “order” button with a flourish and sprawls back on Peter’s couch with a groan.

There isn’t anywhere else for Peter to sit, other than on the end of his bed, so he stands in front of Wade for a long moment before giving up and dropping to the floor in front of the couch. The trunk locker that Peter uses as a coffee table sits between him and Wade. He puts his elbows on the table and rests his elbow on his crossed arms. “How’s your stomach?”

“You mean how’s my smexy gunshot wound? Donno -- let’s give the readers a peek!” Wade unzips his hoodie and exposes his blood-soaked torso. There’s a hole in his suit, but it looks like the skin underneath is clear and new. Or as clear as Deadpool’s skin will ever be, pockmarked and burned as it is. Wade carefully thumbs at the gunshot-hole of his suit with a hum and Peter looks away, face flushing of its own accord and thoughts wandering off in the wrong direction. That touch was so gentle, so intimate, that Peter can’t help but imagine Wade’s thumb in other contexts.

“Gasp. Baby boy, look at you -- you’re _blushing,_ ” Wade coos while Peter ducks his head, pillowing his forehead on his crossed arms.

“Shut up,” Peter says to the coffee table.

Wade hums. Peter hears him move, and then hears Wade’s voice from right next to his ear: “wonder what you’re thinkin’ about. Penny for your thoughts, Petey?”

Peter groans. “I’m broke, but not that broke.”

“I was hoping you’d tell me anyway. Out of the generosity of your heart.”

“Too bad I’m not a generous guy.” Peter takes a chance and raises his head, only to find Deadpool crouched on the other side of the coffee table, wedged between it and the couch, looking like he’s about ready to pounce. Peter stares at him and Wade stares back.

It’s like an old western stand-off, except only Wade is armed and Peter feels way out-gunned, even if their only weapons are words.

“I think you could be real generous, if given the right opportunity,” Wade says diplomatically, a hint of honey to his words.

Peter laughs nervously. He tries to fight his blush, but he feels about as red as his Spider-Man suit right about now.

Wade’s eyes flick to Peter’s bed. “So, is this date one, two, or three?”

“It’s --” Peter starts.

“Petey, baby. Don’t you dare tell me it’s not a date. Look, I’ll all about the Katy Perry _Hot n’ Cold_ tango over here, but let’s move past 2008 and start living your Teenage Dream, huh?”

Peter swallows. “I’m not a teenager,” he says, feeling the need to clarify.

“Obviously. But I think this is more _Teenage Dream_ than it is _I Kissed A Girl_ , right? Unless you want to get into the meta of performative sexuality, in which case we could be here all night. But, if it’s any consolation, nothing I’m peddling here is performative at all.” Deadpool pauses, touching his chin in thought. “Though, I’m totally still here all night, if you want me to be.”

“Performatively?” Peter asks, a hint of a smile creeping to his face. It’s hard _not_ to joke with Wade.

“Don’t tease me like that, baby boy,” Wade says, and Peter can’t help feeling a little bad about it. It’s not like Peter is really _leading him on_ \-- but maybe it really looks like it.

“One,” Peter says, impulsively.

“One?”

“It’d be date number one. Well, I mean, I guess you could count watching the sunrise our first date, but --” Peter says, mouth moving without his express permission, and Deadpool lights up like a Christmas tree. He leans over and kisses Peter on the forehead, just as the doorbell rings with the food. Wade’s still wearing his mask, so the kiss is more of just a gesture and the exaggerated sound of a lip smack, but the action makes Peter flush all the same.

Wade jumps up to get the door and the food while Peter starts setting out plates on the coffee table-trunk. He doesn’t have a regular table, so it’ll have to do.

“Wade, you know I’m not really super...ready...” Peter tries when Wade comes back with the food, putting a couple of beers on the table. “I mean I’ve got a lot of things…” He literally cannot start off this -- whatever it is -- on this foot. Not on a half-lie and unspoken truths. He also can’t shake the guilt eating at him, telling himself that this is a horrible idea, breaking all his rules for one of the least moral people he has ever met. He also can’t shake the fact that he wants to, though. And that’s the loudest part of him, apparently.

Wade interrupts, “Low-key, right? You want this to be low-key and easy, is that what you’re saying?”

“Kind of?” Peter squeaks, because that seems the easiest option. It’s an easy out.

This bad idea looks a hell of a lot like a rocky cliff from where Peter’s standing, the whole thing just waiting to collapse. But Peter’s still climbing it, eagerly grabbing fistfull after fistfull of crumbling rock, hoping it doesn’t collapse under the weight of his own stupidity. He literally cannot seem to stop himself where Deadpool is concerned.

“That’s cool,” Wade says, sitting down on the couch next to Peter. His mask is half-flipped up now, so Peter can see him truly smiling. “I’m easy, baby boy. I’ll take what I can get where your pretty face is concerned.”

Peter tries not to think how much those words hurt on Wade’s behalf. Wade is so willing to settle for second best that he doesn’t even bother fighting -- he just resigns himself.

Well, Peter’s climbing this terrible cliff, so he might as well go all in, right? “I’m not, like, opposed to more,” Peter hazards. “But I need to...figure some stuff out, first.”

“Don’t get your pretty panties in a bunch, Petey,” Wade says. “This is the first date, right? What if we’re totally incompatible? We can burn that bridge when we get to it, huh? I’ll even bring the kerosene.”

Peter _knows_ they’re not incompatible. In fact, they’re super compatible. Not now that he’s gotten to know Wade, he wants more from this rocky relationship they have. That’s sort of the problem: if they were incompatible, Peter wouldn’t feel bad about lying to Wade through omission. He wouldn’t feel bad about Wade always paying for their food. He wouldn’t feel bad about never texting. He wouldn’t feel bad about any of it.

But god, he feels _so bad_.

That’s how he knows he’s in too deep.

“Okay,” Peter says, feeling his throat burn with anxiety.

Wade claps his hands together, eyeing the feast spread out before them on the trunk. Peter hadn’t even noticed how good it all smells. “Alright! Time to dig in!” Wade shouts, making a bee-line for the satay. Peter can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. Maybe he should take a page out of Wade’s book and live more in the moment, instead of worrying about everything that could possibly go wrong but hasn’t yet.

The food is good, especially for late-night delivery. But god knows, Wade would know the right places to order from. They eat in near silence, both too hungry and preoccupied to converse about much other than whatever dumb thing comes to mind. It’s easy, doing this with Wade. Just hanging out, chilling.

Now done with his food, Wade is yammering on about his day, explaining the intricacies of his favorite bodega -- and the three cats that live there. They’re all polydactyl, Peter learns. And they are all apparently named _‘Gabe’_.

Having Wade in his apartment is less stress-inducing than Peter might have imagined. He keeps thinking about it, thoughts occasionally circling back to the fact that Wade is about five feet from Peter’s Spider-Man suits, where they live in a locked box in his closet. It’s kind of exhilarating, in an extremely nerve-wracking kind of way, knowing that Deadpool is so close to Peter’s secret and maybe doesn’t even realize it at all. He couldn’t, right? He would have said something. He’s _Wade Wilson --_ Peter thinks he’d probably have to gag him to keep him silent for more than a couple minutes at a time.

“Jackson for your thoughts?” Wade flutters a bill in his face, snapping Peter out of that train of thought.

“What?” Peter asks.

“You drifted off there. I figured you wouldn’t take a penny for your thoughts, but who’s going to argue with a Jackson?”

Peter snags the money, folds it, and then slides it under one of the straps on Deadpool’s suit, right next to a blood stain that looks like a bunny. Peter can’t just take Wade’s money like that. “Honestly? I was thinking about gagging you.”

Wade grins. “You are a goddamn treasure, Petey. How’d I even _find_ you?” Wade starts piling the trash from the table into a bag, happily cleaning up after them both. “For the record, a gag doesn’t shut me up much. It just makes it harder to understand me. But you’re _more than welcome_ to give it a try yourself. I’m up for anything.”

“Is this your typical first date talk?” Peter asks, trying to derail the line of conversation a little bit.

“Is it yours? You’re the one who was daydreaming about gagging me.” Deadpool hums. “Do you think this can still be rated _Teen_ , or is your wandering mind going to bump this up to _Mature_?”

Well, Peter can’t fight him there. Deadpool didn’t even bring it up -- this one was all on Peter. Peter and his wandering mind.

“You do talk a lot,” Peter says, shrugging.

“I can think of oodles of ways to shut me up.”

Peter knocks into Wade with his shoulder, laughing. “I feel like I’d just be giving you what you want.”

“Maybe,” Wade says with a grin. “But what do _you_ want, Petey?” He leans forward, pokes at Peter’s chest and sings: “ _Tell me what you want, what you really really want_.”

Wade is so close to him on the couch -- he’s not sure how he didn’t notice that before. Wade’s sheer presence is suddenly knocking Peter for a mad loop. Now that Peter has noticed Wade -- well, he _notices_. With all his senses. His whole body feels warm, his heart is racing, and his eyes can’t stop tracking right to Wade’s lips. He can’t stop noticing how good Wade smells, like sweat and like blood, or how good he looks relaxed into the worn fabric of Peter’s couch. It’s like everything has kicked into overdrive, zero-to-sixty in less than a second and Peter is just now getting the memo.

Peter swallows.

“I want you to take off the mask,” Peter says. Selfishly, he’d like to see more of Wade’s face. Unselfishly, he thinks that Wade might be more comfortable without it -- but that’s debatable.

“Um, kiddo,” Wade says. “I don’t think you actually want that.”

“I think I know what I want, Wade.”

Peter isn’t sure how he knows that Wade is raising his eyebrow; but he is. “That is totally not accurate. You don’t know what you want at all, Mr. Hot n’ Cold.”

“No,” Peter argues, chewing at his lip. “I know what I want. I...have for a while. I just -- have a lot of reasons I shouldn’t.”

Deadpool hums. “I still don’t think you want me to take off the mask.”

“Look, if _you_ don’t want to take off the mask, that’s fine. But...I’d like it if you did.” Peter totally understands Deadpool’s paranoia about his face. It’s unwarranted, because Peter wouldn’t be here if he didn’t like Wade himself, but he gets it. The guy has probably gotten a lot of shit about it in the past. “Besides, if you want to try this dating thing, don’t you think that’d be really hard to do with your suit on all the time?” Peter feels his cheeks flush with the implications, but he feels like it’s an important point to make.

“Hm. You make a good argument, baby boy,” Wade says. “But -- still, no.”

“Alright,” Peter says. It’s fair, even though he’s a bit disappointed. He just wants Wade to know that Peter doesn’t care about his face. Not in the way that Wade does, anyway.

“How about, I take my mask off when you deal with some of the reasons you _open air-quote_ shouldn’t do this _close air-quote._ ” Deadpool quotes with his fingers along with the words. “Unless your reasons is just that I’m a feared mercenary with too many kills under my belt to count. In which case, I guess the mask is staying on forever.”

“Then, I know what else I want, instead,” Peter says.

Deadpool stills for a second. “Yeah?”

It’s a good enough moment as any, Peter thinks. So, he leans over and closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to Wade’s in what is arguably an awkward, but earnest kiss. It’s something between chaste and ardent, and it leaves Peter’s chest fluttering and his stomach dropping. It’s _awesome_.

When Peter leans back, wide-eyed and warm, he can’t stop himself from saying: “Oh my god, I can’t believe I just did that.”

He kissed Wade Wilson. Apparently, all of his common sense flew straight out the window and Peter Parker decided to kiss Deadpool while it was gone.

“ _I_ can’t believe you just did that,” Wade says after a moment.

Peter stares, wide-eyed, at Wade for a moment, trying to fight the panic rising in his chest. It’s a damn persistent feeling, absolutely unwilling to budge.

God, he shouldn’t have done that.

God, he wants to do it again.

So, obviously, Peter listens to the rational part of his brain, the one responsible for keeping him safe and secure and he -- does it again. God _dammit_.

This time, it’s better orchestrated. Less awkward, less shy. It’s been awhile since Peter kissed anyone, but the muscle memory of it comes back easily. It helps that Wade curls a cautious hand over the back of Peter’s neck and pulls him closer: a welcome invitation to keep going. Wade’s whole body is warm, and Peter hooks a leg over Wade’s lap and clambers up to straddle the mercenary, self-preservation be damned.

If Peter’s going all in, he’s going _all in_ , apparently.

They fall into a rhythm of it, going until Peter feels like he can barely breathe. It takes him way too long to notice that Wade’s gloved hands are in his hair, gently pulling and tugging, coaxing little sounds out of Peter's throat with his efforts. It’s the sound of his own noises -- moaning, god, he's moaning -- that startles Peter into pulling back so that he can just look at Wade and truly think about his own choices.

Wade looks kind of wrecked, honestly. He looks startled and caught off-guard. His lips are kiss-bitten and red, and he’s half smiling with an open, surprised mouth. Sure, his mask is still covering the top half of his face, but Peter doesn’t need visual confirmation (or a mirror) to know that Wade’s pupils are just as dilated as his own.

Yeah, no, Peter’s _totally okay_ with this.

“You know, I really was not planning on this,” Wade says. He thumbs under Peter’s lower lip, likely wiping away any stray saliva from their kiss. It’s a cute gesture, but Peter finds himself thinking it’s strangely hot.

“If it’s any consolation, neither was I.” But he doesn’t regret it. He can’t bring himself to. Not when everything finally feels _right_ , not when all the puzzle pieces seem to fit together. He’s probably making the world’s worst decision -- but he doesn’t care.

“I just -- hm...” Deadpool pauses. “I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. I have a chaste reputation to maintain, you know.” He grins.

“Oh yeah, real chaste.”

“Hey, it’s not every day I let a pretty boy clamber on top of me after I’m shot.”

“I feel like that’s more down to circumstances than you allowing it,” Peter says.

“Probably,” Wade agrees. He threads his fingers through Peter’s hair and sighs dreamily. “I think this is all just an elaborate near-death fantasy, but I’m totally okay with it.”

“Please. You weren’t even close to dying.” Peter doesn’t really want to imagine Wade dying, even though he knows that the guy does it rather frequently. It still just...skeeves Peter out a bit.

“You don’t know that. I got _shot_.”

“What, do you want me to kiss it better?”

Wade tilts his head up to the heavens -- or Peter’s ceiling -- and whispers a _“thank you, Beyoncé_.” Then, he lets his hands fall to Peter’s hips and just stay there. “The answer to that is _totally yes_ , but I get the feeling that saying ‘ _yes please, oh my god, right now_ ’ would be moving a little fast.”

The words are surprising, honestly. Self-control isn’t something Peter would have assumed Wade had in spades. He also didn’t think it was something Wade would have more of than him. “I guess -- that makes sense.” Peter’s always been a jump in feet-first kind of person, once he sets his mind about something. It’s hard to reign himself in once he’s already in motion.

But Wade’s right. Only an hour ago, Peter was still hesitant about this whole thing. Even now, he knows better. Not enough to stop himself, but enough to feel a bit of guilt niggling at the back of his head for breaking his own rules.

“I’m not saying _never_. I’m not even saying not _next time_ ,” Wade says. “Just...you were all, ‘ _Oh no, Mr. Wilson~, I couldn’t possibly!’_ a minute ago.”

“Hey! I don’t sound like that.”

“No, that sounded way too Tobey Maguire, didn’t it? Maybe I should go more Andrew Garfield or Tom Holland. Which do you prefer?”

Peter narrows his eyes. “I don’t sound like _either_ of them.” He doesn't think so, anyway.

Deadpool shrugs. “Ooh, leaving it up to reader interpretation. I like.”

Peter just rolls his eyes. “I should probably uh,” he looks down at the way he’s seated, straddling Deadpool like this. His own shirt is now a mess, thanks to Wade’s blood and dirt-covered suit, but Peter can’t really bring himself to care. His own clothes have been through so much, this is honestly the least dirty they’ve been after a long night for a while. “-- get off.” Peter finishes.

Wade waggles his eyebrows. His mask wiggles with the effort.

“You know what I meant,” Peter sighs, shoving at Deadpool’s shoulder.

“You could stay like this,” Wade suggests. He nods at the television in front of the couch. “We could watch a movie until the sun comes up.” He doesn’t suggest moving to the bed, which would be the obviously more comfortable solution. But Peter hadn’t suggested moving, either. He’s full of respect, in a weird sort of way that Peter never particularly noticed before. “No funny business. I’ll even keep my hands in respectable places. Or -- ooh! I could cut them off. It’ll take a couple hours for them to grow back. How about that?”

“I think I like your hands where they are,” Peter says. They both look down after he speaks, to where Wade’s hands are resting on Peter’s hips, warm and steady. They are broad over his hip bones, with Wade applying just the slightest pressure to keep them there. It’s kind of distracting. Peter clears his throat, “Um. I meant attached to your arms and not dismembered, but -- this is okay, too.”

“Okay, or _good_?” Wade asks, tone suddenly serious.

Peter takes a breath and focuses on the way he feels. On those hands on his hips, on the way his body responds to them. It’s not even a question: “Good. They’re good.” Really good. Oh boy.

“Thumbs-up-emoji, heart-eyes-emoji, drooling-emoji,” Wade says. Peter can almost see the emojis dancing over Wade’s head like he’s in a cartoon.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Is this where I respond with ‘ _eggplant emoji’_?”

“Baby boy -- do me a favor, yeah?” When Peter nods carefully, unsure what exactly he’s agreeing to, Wade continues. “Don’t tell me I’m dreaming. I don’t think my poor little heart could take it. You’re too perfect, it’s unbelievable.”

“Shut up, Wade,” Peter says, before remembering that he has some power to actually do something about that, now. So, he catches Wade in a long kiss. It shuts Deadpool up and it makes Peter’s chest fill with something light and airy -- and this time he doesn’t even think it’s sleep deprivation.

After a while, Peter pulls back, grabs the remote, and turns on Netflix. They settle on _Ancient Aliens_ , because Wade begged for it. Peter’s consolation prize (other than hearing Wade beg) is shifting on the couch so that they’re both laying down, Peter on Wade’s chest.

“Are you sure I’m not crushing you?” Peter asks. “You did just get shot.”

“One -- you’re not crushing me. You’re fun-sized. Two -- even if you were crushing me, I’d be totally into that. Who doesn’t love a little pain sometimes? Especially when it’s from someone so _hot, hot damn_.”

“I’m being serious, Wade. You were hurt.”

“I’m not hurt anymore. Maybe I _like_ you pinning me down to the couch, huh? Big strong Peter holding me down? Oh baby, take me now!”

Peter can’t find it in himself to argue -- so, he just kisses Wade instead.

The last thing Peter remembers before drifting off is Wade talking about the racism inherent in the concept of _Ancient Aliens_ ; the show’s assumptions that aliens built the ancient marvels, instead of people of color. Peter remembers the feeling of Wade combing lazy fingers through Peter’s hair; the sound of Wade’s voice, vehement and passionate; and the tangle of their legs together.

\--

When Peter wakes up, he’s in his bed, alone.

One of his favorite blankets is wrapped around him like a burrito and his his blinds are closed, keeping the morning sun at bay. He doesn’t even have a chance to get mad, because on the pillow next to him is a little plush Deadpool looking cheery and dopey in turns.

Peter laughs, before his eyes settle on something shiny between its fat red legs. He wriggles his way out of his blanket burrito and makes a grab for the shiny thing, trying to blink the sleep out his eyes as he does so. His fingers wrap around it and his brain makes the connection before he can even pull it closer to his face to examine it: it’s a phone.

He flips it open, admiring the solid technology of a shitty flip phone, and notices that he has a message waiting for him. 

> **_hey sleepyhead. i wasn’t sure if u would want this [phone emoji] but i realized that the reason u might not want to txt is bc u might not want to share ur #. totally cool. anyway, if u want it, this is urs [kissyface emoji]  
>  _-[skull emoji] [smiling poop emoji] L__ **

Peter can’t help but grin. He takes the Deadpool plush, tucks it into his lap, and sets about typing out a reply. It’s definitely a process, having to push a key multiple times to get different letters). Yikes -- how did people do this in the dark ages?

> _**Did you really just buy me a burner phone...Skullpoopl?** _

Peter pauses. He looks down at the Deadpool plush, who is staring back up at him with its giant white eyes.

 ** _Thanks, Wade_ ,** he types out. _**I appreciate it.**  _Peter finds the heart emoji. Then, he rolls his eyes, smiles, and follows it up with an eggplant emoji, because he knows it'll make Wade's day.

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) not all nyc subway stations are deadzones but plz suspend your disbelief for the purpose  
> 2.) apparently i seem to be going real hard for this spideypool thing  
> 3.) i wrote this bc i was bored and i just wanted to make the words go  
> 4.) thank you to the amazing [cosleia](http://cosleia.tumblr.com) for looking this over and reassuring me that it was okay!  
> 5.) comments and kudos always appreciated.
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


End file.
